


The Devil's in the Details

by dont_rainonmyparade



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Finally, M/M, emily answers prompts, for corpusinvictus, it isn't fluff, sorry this was originally lighter but in my head q wasn't having it, swear to god it was meant to be fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dont_rainonmyparade/pseuds/dont_rainonmyparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Bond asks Q to stay, Q is fairly certain that, all things considered, the evening could have gone better. In answer to the prompt, "Things You Didn't Say At All."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's in the Details

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorpusInvictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpusInvictus/gifts).



It’s their first time, and Q feels like he’s shattering. All light, all sensation, all Bond’s hot breath in his ear, all the double-oh’s body slick on his, all Bond sliding into him, careening towards his own orgasm.

With a small shudder, and a low cry, Bond bites down hard on Q’s shoulder, and in turn, Q twines his fingers through Bond’s blond hair, holding his lover against him. How close can two people be? Q starts to wonder, as Bond trembles underneath him. The agent’s fingertips brush down the analyst’s spine, and Q breathes Bond in – his scent is of the earth, and masculine. He smells of desire. They both do.

Q rises up, and Bond slip out of him. Q closes his eyes, thinking for a moment that god, there isn’t anything in the world like that sensation of full-ness. Bond turns, rolling his hips, and in a dizzying moment, Q finds himself pinned underneath the double-oh. “Bond,” Q chuckles nervously. “That was…a surprise.”

Bond sits back on his heels, looking quizzical. “Oh dear,” he murmurs. “I’d thought we’d been communicating…clearly.” The delicate word is a low rumble.

Q can feel his face flushing. “No,” he says quickly, shaking his head, blinking up at Bond, wondering where the devil Bond had laid down his glasses, all the while cursing his near-sightedness. “I meant – ”

“You meant?” Bond prompts quickly.

“Never mind,” Q shakes his head, blinking.

“Right.” Bond looks skeptical, but he doesn’t press the analyst. _Thank goodness for small mercies,_ Q thinks to himself.

With a touch of hesitation, which Q likely only notices because usually nothing about the man with a license to kill is hesitant, Bond leans towards Q, and shifts to lie down beside him. Q blinks, because all of a sudden Bond is cradling him, and this is not a side of Bond that Q has ever seen before. Affection? What’s the ulterior motive?

A moment later, Q forcibly relaxes, and drapes an arm around Bond. The two are silent for what seems like forever; the only thing Q can hear is the ticking of his watch in the dark room.

It’s a quiet night, for London. Bond’s flat, Q marvels. Spartan, but sophisticated. He wonders how long they’re going to do this. _Where are my trousers?_ he thinks to himself. _My pants, for that matter?_ Q bites his lip, breathing into Bond’s shoulder, remembering vaguely that he’d draped his suspenders over the agent’s sofa.

The last thing Q wants to do is stumble all over Bond’s flat looking for his clothes when the agent does inevitably decide to kick Q out of his bed. But a moment later, Bond clears his throat, and what the double-oh says next nearly makes Q fall out of the bed of his own accord.

“So,” Bond breathes, a touch of lust still in his voice, “will you stay the night?”

Q is no longer thinking about his suspenders. Who the hell needs suspenders, when James fucking Bond has just asked him to stay the night? Q struggles for a moment, and bites his lip, before asking, “Sorry, what?” which is clearly the most coherent thing he has said this year, especially to this agent he’s falling too hard for. _I’ll be damned,_ Q thinks.

“You heard me, Q,” Bond growls, sounding amused. “Don’t make me ask again.”

A moment passes. “Right,” Q murmurs, focusing hard at a spot on Bond’s shoulder. He is quiet, thinking, blinking. “And if I say no?” he enquires, feeling oddly rebellious, and not totally sure why. He wants to stay. Bond is offering to give him what he wants. Why is he questioning it? Why is he tempting fate?

Bond’s answer is without hesitation. “Then I’ll fuck you again,” he says, sounding slightly less drowsy.

Q is skeptical about whether Bond is really ready to follow through on such a statement, but he cringes all the same. “A man could never accuse you of mincing words,” he murmurs drily.

“No,” James agrees.

“Besides,” Q quips, bristling and mildly irritated now, he can't put his finger on what it is, but the words come tumbling out of his mouth now, “I might not want you to fuck me again. I’d hardly say that you, or anyone else, has any degree of entitlement to my body.”

“Q,” Bond sighs patiently, gathering the analyst more closely even as Q grumbles under his breath. “You want to stay the night. I want you to stay the night. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.”

Q is still for a moment, before he twists back suddenly.

“Bond,” he says softly, his heart breaking, “You and I both know that it was never going to be as uncomplicated as that.” He feels Bond’s hands twine around his arms, drawing him back, but he shifts away. “No. You have to let me go, Bond. I don’t want this. Not like this.”

Q turns again, his feet twisted in the sheets, and this time, he does indeed fall out of Bond’s bed, and curses colorfully. He can hear Bond protesting from above on the mattress, reaching for Q, calling him back to bed, but Q isn’t going back. The Quartermaster thrashes against the linen, squirming free, finally, and crawls backward, stilling against the far wall.

“Q, come back to bed. Please. We can talk about this in the morning,” Bond murmurs, wiping the night from his eyes. He looks to Q, whose eyes are surprisingly bright, and Bond knows that he is not coherent enough for whatever Q is turning over in his head at this late hour.

“Please tell me where my spectacles are,” Q says, drawing his knees up against his chest and rising to his feet. He turns away from James; he can’t look at him. Instead, he watches the shadow his body casts on the wall of James’ flat. How many other shadows have stood in this spot, preparing to walk away? Was it always going to end like this?

Bond doesn’t look up; his head rests on his hands. “Nightstand,” he says curtly, feeling like an immovable object met with an irresistible force.

Q darts over, snatching them up, not looking at Bond anymore. “I’ll see you at Six,” he says quickly. “Don’t expect any awkwardness. I won’t expect any from you. Difficult to expect anything from a man who feels nothing, in any case." The words are sharp. The Quartermaster feels sharp.

“Q,” Bond groans plaintively, but the word falls flat in the air, on ears that are already somewhere else. Q leaves the room, and finds his pants after all. His trousers are rumpled, but still have the crease he’d ironed in them that very morning – forever ago now.

His button-up shirt was draped over the couch – Q tries not to think about how it came off so slowly, how Bond had kissed his way down the analyst’s chest and then – and Q’s suspenders were not far behind, just as he’d suspected. His shoes are at the door, hidden under his discarded cardigan.

The door to the flat slams loudly behind Q, and he takes in a deep breath of the cold night air, trying not to think of the double-oh he’d left behind. _I wish it had been complicated_ , he thinks. _I wish I hadn’t been simple. Why don’t you let anyone in, James? I didn’t want you to fuck me. I thought we were making love. Why on earth did I think such a thing?_

His feet crunch across the thin layer of snow collecting on the streets of London. He straightens his glasses, and hunches his shoulders, regretting leaving the warm bed and immediately chastising himself for his regret. _Why didn’t you stay?_ he asks himself. _He wanted you to stay. Why not? Because…you’re tired of being a conquest. Because you couldn’t bear to be his conquest - not for any longer than you already were. Because you’re afraid of what it would mean, if you did stay._

_What would you have done, Q, if he had been sincere? What if he had been sincere, and you’re too afraid of being hurt to allow James fucking Bond the opportunity to actually be sincere?_

_Why didn’t you just tell him that your body and your heart are too tired, and too afraid, to be broken again?_

Q breathes the cold night air in deeply, and pulls his waistcoat more tightly around him. He throws his scarf over his shoulder, winding it around his neck again, and walks on.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @corpusinvictus on Tumblr, because she's a dear. Sorry I screwed around with this for much longer than I planned to originally! Come find me on Tumblr, let's talk about these crazies! @emsdispatch


End file.
